A Jog to Memory

The odor of wild honey
at this moment reminds me
of the bed from which we rose
without shame, without guilt,
and left the fragrance
of our discovery as real
as winds off the Spice Islands.

Happiness comes, happiness goes,
I do not expect perfume every day,
not in this world of ill winds.
We are what we are and the cry
we make to ourselves must be heard
somehow among our daily chores.
We hunt for signs to help us
remember the first garden
before we lost our way.